


hey stranger

by acomplicatedprofession



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Banter, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Idk i think it's cute, Kissing, M/M, gender neutral i think, he calls them sweetheart a lot, lmao this is literally like one of two fics in the cobb/reader tag y u all sleepin on my mans, mentions of tatooine slave trade/running away, o wait there's some, ye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acomplicatedprofession/pseuds/acomplicatedprofession
Summary: You wrinkled your nose with a hand raised to shield your eyes from the twin suns, squinting up at the older man when he asked “What’re you doin’ all the way out here, exactly?”You only shrugged. “Speeder-bike broke down.”The Marshall who’d told you to call him Cobb had barked out a laugh, crouching down to inspect the busted engine and leaking fuel tank. “Yeah, I can see that, sweetheart.”
Relationships: Cobb Vanth/Reader, Cobb Vanth/You
Comments: 26
Kudos: 79





	hey stranger

You heard the boot spurs before you saw him, in the dusty cantina you never thought you’d go back to.

Life is full of surprises apparently.

No reason for your presence, though. It’s not like you sped all the way out here on a borrowed transport with no real aim besides “ _soaking in the small-town feel_ ” or another equally bullshit excuse. It’s not like you were looking for something. Or someone. Definitely not someone. 

But then that someone sat down beside you.

“C’mere often?”

You snorted loudly, ducking your head to escape the man’s familiar, crooked smile as you curled your hands around the rim of your spotchka. It was a viscous blue thing, washing down your throat like clinical syrup, but it was cheap, which was enough for you. 

“Nice to see you too, Cobb,” you replied dryly, shaking your head with a laugh when he quirked his eyebrows. 

It really was nice to see him, actually. It was a better improvement over the circumstances of your last meeting, that was for sure. You had a job and money and everything. Last time you’d been here in Mos Pelgo, you were out of fuel and essentially helpless because your stolen speeder bike decided to break down with no hope of repair in the middle of a kriffing desert.

You’d thought you were dead meat the minute you saw dented green armor above the crest of the sand dunes, remembering stories of some slinger called the “Marshall” with a blaster and a fucking _jetpack_ , of all things.

Then you saw how lean he was underneath it, like a little kid in too-big boots, and you kind of laughed.

Then he shot towards you on said jetpack like a ballistic missile and you got scared again.

Then he landed, stepped forward all slow-like, and took his helmet off.

And suddenly you weren’t so scared anymore.

You wrinkled your nose with a hand raised to shield your eyes from the twin suns, squinting up at the older man when he asked “What’re you doin’ all the way out here, exactly?”

You only shrugged. “Speeder-bike broke down.”

The Marshall who’d told you to call him Cobb had barked out a laugh, crouching down to inspect the busted engine and leaking fuel tank. “Yeah, I can see that, sweetheart.”

You bristled slightly at the nickname, startled at how easily he seemed to offer honey-nothings. They weren’t entirely unwelcome (his being easy on the eyes didn’t hurt) but they were… unexpected. The man called you sweetheart and darling and other burnt sugar praises as if it were easy as breathing. To him, you guessed, it was.

But he didn’t ask why you didn’t have any money or why you had the scar of a dug-out tracking chip on your arm, so you were grateful. Mos Espa wasn’t a nice place. The Hutts weren’t nice people. 

You had nothing when you ran from them, except for the clothes on your back and maybe yourself in a carnal way if you were desperate enough. It hadn’t come to that yet, and hopefully it never would.

Maybe it was luck. Or destiny. Something of the woo-woo mystical sort (which you never used to believe in but now kind of did) that let you meet one of the last decent men on this shitstorm of a planet. He offered you a ride and a drink. A place to crash for the night if you wanted it. 

Cobb’s voice was deep and always halfway grinning in an accent unfamiliar to your city ears. You probably should’ve been warier of strange men, especially ones that wore a dead man’s armor, but you liked his voice. How it sounded saying your name. 

You really, really liked it. 

Besides all that, you trusted him. Which would be real stupid if it was any other man on Tattooine with a blaster at his hip, but he was different. You didn’t know why. You just did. Maybe it really _was_ the woo-woo Force magic making you feel that way, pulling you towards him and his chipped armor and clear blue eyes. 

So you followed him up the dune and climbed onto his speeder, leaving the remaining scrap of your old life half-buried in the sand.

It’s been almost a month since then.

True to his word, Cobb did give you somewhere to sleep that night.

His house was small and made out of pale, baked earth, partitioned down the middle to share with another man as to not waste resources or space after the events of the Mining Collective.

You silently thanked the Maker the other man wasn’t here, even if there were two separate entrances and they were essentially two different homes. It’d be an awkward conversation to have, and you got the feeling that harboring foreigners in a place like this wasn’t a great look for a big-shot like him. You’d already been the subject of whispers when the townspeople saw you riding back on the Marshall’s speeder, a young stranger in a place where it was dangerous to be either of those things. It was the longest five minutes of your life sitting behind him with your arms around his side for balance, trying to avoid the eyes of everyone who seemed to have nothing better to do than to stop and stare.

Inside, it was surprisingly neat. Objects rested on his rounded shelves and you found yourself running your fingers across them when he led you through, unused to the gentle clutter of a home and pretty things that existed just to be pretty. He’d shed his armor by the door and quipped something stupid about your looking away while he wasn’t _really_ undressing. You’d rolled your eyes then, not really annoyed with him as much as you were with yourself.

But you realized it was kind of nice to have someone around. Someone who took you in like you weren’t just a runaway, who offered you dinner and wasn’t trying to fight you or fuck you. Come to think of it, the latter wouldn’t actually be too-

Yeah.

When Cobb opened the door to his bedroom the suns had already dipped below the wavering horizon line, casting everything in muddy purple light. You tried not to think about how he was sleeping in the living room (you didn’t want to put him out and told him you’d be fine anywhere, but he didn’t listen) or how he’d handed you clean clothes, soft and red and smelling like milk-soap. Everything in his house was well-worn by desert living, but it was well-cared-for. Kind of like him.

Sleep eluded you as it always did, but it was peaceful for the first time in a long time when it came. 

You exchanged your goodbyes with the Marshall under a blazing afternoon the following day. It wouldn’t be fair to intrude more, you reasoned. After all, he’d already done more for you than anyone else ever had. You couldn’t ask for more.

Cobb gave you more without your asking and despite your protest. Walking you with a hand hovering at your shoulder to the very counter you sat at a month after the fact, he handed you a canvas bag, 50 spare credits, and a promise to hail over some of his old mining buddies. “They’re skipping town soon, could bring you along if you wanna get out of here n’ find some work.”

If.

If?

Was he implying that- that you could stay? With him?

No, right? Of course you’d leave. This was just… temporary. The one-night kindness of the town protector. A small saving grace for an outsider running from something but never told him what. 

So you gave him a one-armed hug, the kind of awkward embrace meant for friends of friends and unknown relatives because you didn’t know what else to do, and went on your way. 

You realized, climbing aboard the back of a mag transport a half-hour later and remembering the feeling of his pilled shirtsleeve against your cheek, that you never truly told him thank you.

That was why you were here now. Sitting with your knees knocking into his and pouring him a shot of some shit that tasted like drain cleaner but didn’t cost your wallet. To say thank you. That’s all. It was the least you could do. 

Cobb called your name and you turned back to face him. “Yeah?”

“Why’re you back here? Thought you’d be long gone by now.”

You shoved at his shoulder lightly, turning the now-empty glass over in your hand. “Not happy to see me?”

A scoff in the shape of a smile escaped him with a slight shake of his head. He’d taken off his helmet when he walked in here and it sat between you, resting heavy and dented on the flat counter next to your elbows. It needed a paint job. Like, real bad.

“You know I am,” the man replied, his usual twang giving way to something more sincere. The admission made your chest flush and you bit back a grin, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. “Just wonderin’ why you’re back, is all,” he said softly. 

The Marshall's eyes followed around the old cantina and found it empty in a heady quiet, the bartender on the other side of the counter doing his best not to listen. You liked the man. He was nice.

“Did the guys give you trouble?” Cobb asked, his voice suddenly lower; more threatening in a way that had your stomach rising even if it wasn’t towards you—would never be towards you.

The set of his brow softened slightly when you shook your head, emphatic and assuring him that his friends were fine, great actually. Maybe a little rough around the edges and slow to warm up to you, but you’d come to expect that in a place like Tatooine. They’d set you up with a mechanics gig when they’d landed in Mos Taike, a tiny settlement far enough away from Mos Espa to feel safe for the time being. It was good work, if a bit boring; essentially the same as what you’d been doing for years past. Only difference was that now you got paid.

“I just-” you began, struggling to articulate whatever the hell it is you came here to do. What _did_ you come here to do, really? You could’ve just commed him or something, could’ve transferred over the credits to pay him back in gratitude and left this town as a memory, the easy split of a desert fruit that signaled the start of your real existence. There was no true need to come back here again, somewhere out of your way with nothing else to offer you besides the smile of a man with silver-streaked hair.

And yet here you were, wasting a half-tank of someone else’s fuel. Like an idiot.

You picked at the edge of your drink, watching chipped flakes of the glass’ metal coating peel off and litter the countertop in tiny fragments. “Well- I- Can I ask you something?”

Cobb’s expression was easy, if a bit quizzical. His lips pulled up in a crooked peace offering. “If you want to.”

“Why did you help me?”

Wind whistled through the open entrance and blew away the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered on your neck. It was the dry sort of wind, dusty and hot that left minuscule grains of sand wherever it traveled. You rubbed away the imaginary dirt at your neck, waiting. 

He pushed his helmet forward until you could see his fractured reflection in the gaps of silver, and left his hand beside yours. “You reminded me of myself.”

“Gee, that’s nice,” you responded, still sarcastic through your rising pleasure at being thought of by him. Preening over some desert cop (sheriff? mayor?) just because he was half-way kind and more than half-way attractive was silly, but you allowed yourself a small comfort in the way his eyes softened. 

“Not like that,” Cobb said, faking exasperation. “You’re just young. Scrappy. A lot prettier than I ever was, though,” he said with a wink.

Thank the Maker he wasn’t creepy and you weren’t stupid.

“Haha,” you deadpanned, reaching for the pitcher of spotchka. Drinking during the day probably wasn’t a great idea either, but your track record with those hadn’t been amazing thus far. “Well, since you answered my question, I think it’s my turn.” You pushed his refilled glass towards him. “I came back to… see you, I guess.”

He said your name through a sigh, the vowels twisting in a low drawl. “You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you mumbled, your heartbeat still quickening at the epithet. “But I wanted to.”

You wanted to do a lot of things. Tell Cobb a lot of things. 

After all, without him you’d probably still be stranded somewhere in the dunes, left to be picked at by sand birds or bargained over by Jawas. But how are you supposed to tell somebody _hey, uh no big deal but you kind of saved my life and showed me the first genuine kindness I’ve experienced in years? We spent less than 24 hours together but I’m still thinking about you and I don’t know why but I’m pretty sure if I tried leaving you again I wouldn’t be able to and I really hope you feel it too because otherwise this whole trip would be really, really stupid and I guess I’ll just go back and pretend like this never happened anyways I like your jetpack okay thanks have a nice day._

Yeah. That’d definitely go over well. 

Cobb shook his head, amused. “That’s all, huh?”

“No,” you admitted into your spotchka. “No, no there was another thing.” Your leg bouncing against the curved rim of the barstool until it dug through the soles of your boots, the rubber worn thin. “I forgot to say thank you.”

The man’s eyebrows raised as if to say _so?_ and you gulped down a breath, setting your glass against the bar with probably more force than was necessary, but that gave a small comfort and some semblance of confidence before your act of probably irredeemable stupidity. You twisted to face Cobb square on, your jaw set as you let an exhale leave your nose in a huff. It was now or never.

His lips were soft.

And he actually kissed you back.

It was nothing like those boys you’d met in back-alleys, with their clammy hands and clumsy lips. Cobb’s hands were warm; broad and dry and solid against your cheek when you felt yourself standing (or maybe being lifted?) out of your seat until you stood between his open legs. The slot of his mouth against yours lasted maybe two seconds—three, tops—but it felt so much longer, so much softer even as stubble scratched your face and you felt the calluses of his fingers trail against your neck. He tasted like shit whiskey but you didn’t even care. He tasted like home. 

You were the one who pulled away, having lost both your breath and your wits. If the bartender was pretending not to listen before, he’d apparently gone deaf and blind now.

“So,” you whispered with a slack grin, glancing down at the spit-shine of Cobb’s kissed mouth when you swiped the back of your palm across your own lips. “Thanks. For everything.”

For the first time since you’d met him, the Marshall had nothing to say.

But then he slipped his heavy hands into your hair, closing the few inches of weighted space that’d been made between your faces with another gentle press of that stupid, perfect mouth, and said _everything._

“Cobb?” you murmured against him. His fingers rose up to scratch lightly at the nape of your neck and you almost choked, stumbling on the unexpected intimacy of his reciprocated feelings.

“Stay,” he urged you. He meant for today, for another handful of hours before the light gave way to dusk and you both had things to do, but the syllable made your mind wander, building hypotheticals on the suns’ cycles instead of their rotations. His breath fanned hot over the bow of your mouth. “Don’t go back.”

You frowned, remembering the borrowed transport of one of his friends parked outside. “I took Jax’s speeder, I can’t just—”

“Fuck Jax,” Cobb replied flippantly and pulling you in closer again, a slight growl in his voice that made it a lot easier for the irrational, keening part of your brain to think _yeah, fuck Jax._

“Cobb,” you chided softly, prying yourself away from him even though that was really the last thing you wanted to do. “I can’t.”

He smoothed back the slight salt dew at your temples, blue eyes earnest and puppy-soft through his tanned crow’s feet. “Just tonight, hm? Then you can tell him I kidnapped you or somethin’, make me pay for the fuel,” he teased with a wink.

Pretending to consider it for a moment, you raised an eyebrow. “Full tank?”

His boots made a much heavier sound than yours when he stood from the counter, near chest-to-chest with you between the two seats before he concessed, laying a soft peck to the crown of your head while he reached for his helmet. For someone you kind of only barely knew, this felt way more right than it probably should. Whatever _this_ was. 

“If you want,” Cobb chuckled, leading you out the cantina with a wave of his hand towards the bartender, who had been aggressively polishing bar glasses in an effort to keep from intruding. Maybe a bar in the middle of nowhere wasn’t the most romantic spot you could’ve picked. “I’ll throw in dinner, too.”

You went down the adobe steps quickly, bouncing on the balls of your heels in ill-disguised giddiness. “Well I couldn’t refuse that, now could I?”

“I’d hope not.”

Suddenly, outside in the open desert air, you were aware of how quiet it was. There seemed to be no one outside, but you saw the lifting of blinds that shut just as quickly when you swiveled your head. The roof of your mouth went dry.

“Hey,” Cobb tugged at your wrist as if sensing your sudden displacement. “I’m glad you’re here, yeah? Honest. I had half a mind to drive up to Mos Taike, was driving myself crazy.”

Another grin split your face despite your attempts to bite it back, and you heard people opening their doors but couldn’t bring yourself to mind. “Wait, really?”

“Really,” he parroted solemnly. 

“Really?” you repeated, letting the taste of the word and all its implications settle in your mouth.

The man slipped an arm around your waist, his nose knocking against yours before your mouths were able to meet again; chaste and tender in their split-second union. Cobb slipped his damaged helmet back on, the lip of it grazing against your hair. “ _Really._ ”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "what about your 10 other WIPs?" "don't you have a narcos series that hasn't been updated in 2 months?" "why aren't you doing your assignments?" "did you even proofread this?" shhhhh shhhh shhhh. im just as disappointed in myself as u are ok. it's fine. everything is fine. just. shhhhhhhhhhh.


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